Chapter 24
In the hot June morning, high in a tower of Hertford Castle, Constanza’s confinement chamber was a draped, enclosed womb.
The atmosphere, stifling with the scents of incense and candle wax, was making Jeanette nauseous.
Sweat dampened her armpits and prickled her forehead against the line of her headdress.
On the great bed, Constanza was labouring to bear the child conceived in Bordeaux on her wedding night nine months earlier.
Her ladies surrounded her, chattering and exclaiming in Castilian, urging her to push, wiping her brow, supporting her body.
Constanza uttered a long groan through clenched teeth.
Her fair, unbound hair was wet-dark on her scalp.
A fire had been lit even though it was a burning day, and a cauldron of water bubbled over the flames.
Surrounding the bed on various tables and placed in niches were statues and relics, each one connected with the matter of childbirth, especially St Margaret who, after being swallowed by a serpent, had gained her freedom by bursting from its belly.
Throughout Constanza’s labour, which had begun yesterday evening, she had been invoked without cease, and fresh candles had been lit before her figure each time one burned down to the stub.
Constanza’s cries now were of genuine pain and struggle but full of anger too. She was resolute, exuding furious outrage at the whole indignity of the messy ordeal.
As a future queen and Constanza’s sister by marriage, Jeanette was attending the confinement.
Indeed, John had asked her to do so, because she was acquainted with Constanza from Gascony.
However, Constanza had her own preferred ladies and Jeanette was an outsider, necessary to bear witness, welcomed formally for propriety’s sake, but beyond that the relationship was lukewarm.
John and his pregnant bride had entered London in an official parade in early February and the city had turned out to greet them.
Edward had been fit enough to ride a horse and since their father was unwell had deputised for him, despite his own precarious health.
Constanza had looked magnificent – tall, fair and imperious – bundled up in ermine furs against the damp London chill, her belly beginning to show the curve of pregnancy.
John had been proud, watchful and wary. There was no warmth between the couple.
Duty, certainly, and mutual appreciation of pageant and ceremony bound them together, but there had been no fond glances, no smiles or brief hand touches as there were between herself and Edward. All was glass-cold, fulfilling a role.
The accommodation at Hertford, where Constanza had settled to bear her baby, was faultless, with no expense spared.
Rich textiles of silk and velvet and heavy tapestries depicting flowery meadows covered the walls.
There were inlaid tables, painted chests, and carved benches piled with embroidered cushions.
Gold and silver ornaments stood in every niche, and ornate candelabra burned a fortune in beeswax candles on their sharp spikes.
While opulent and fit for a queen, the effect was claustrophobic.
Jeanette had brought Richard with her, and he had many playmates, for his cousins of Lancaster, Philippa, Elizabeth and Henry, were here, along with the three youngsters belonging to their governess, Katherine. Richard’s tutor Simon Burley was supervising and schooling the children every morning.
Lady Swynford sat before the fire, preparing towels in anticipation of the infant’s birth.
Her movements were methodical and smooth, her attitude composed and selfcontained.
She wore a black velvet gown, and her hair was decently covered by a plain wimple.
A belt of gilded leather at her waist, adorned with two golden tassels, added a stylish twist to what was otherwise a severe ensemble.
Only days after her conversation with Jeanette at the Langley Christmas gathering, she had received news that her husband had died in Gascony before he was able to sail home, and that she had become a widow.
Although cast into deep grief by the unexpected loss, matters had changed substantially.
Her official role in the Lancaster household was that of caring for the Duke’s children.
Jeanette had heard though that very recently Lady Swynford had received several monetary and preferential gifts from her employer and it did not take a scholar’s brain to know why.
Constanza, superficially at least, appeared to be ignoring what was under her nose, or else finding it unworthy of her attention.
Constanza’s cries were becoming louder and more guttural.
Jeanette thanked God she no longer had to face the bloody, messy ordeal of the birthing chamber, but she still experienced an echo of regret that this glorious, terrifying triumph of delivering a child and hearing its first cry would never be hers again.
Urged on, encouraged by her ladies in rapid Castilian, Constanza strained again and with a final effort pushed the baby into the world.
The infant cried immediately, arms waving in shock at the sudden exposure of skin to air.
Constanza demanded in impatient Spanish to know its sex, and after a brief hesitation Dame Elyot, the midwife, announced that it was a healthy girl.
Constanza flopped against the pillows and put a hand across her forehead. Her chin wobbled, and then she set her lips on her disappointment that it was not the much-desired male heir for Castile. The baby was taken away to be bathed and wrapped in one of the towels Lady Swynford had been preparing.
‘You have a beautiful daughter,’ Jeanette said, touching Constanza’s arm.
Constanza’s mouth twisted. ‘So much work for a girl child,’ she said, ‘but she has come from me, from the sweat and toil of my body, and therefore I must own her and protect her.’ She gave Jeanette a piercing look.
‘Do they not say that whether a child be male or female is decided by the man? That if a man’s seed is weaker than the woman’s she will bear a girl, and if it is stronger, it will be a boy? ’
‘I have heard it said in some quarters,’ Jeanette replied cautiously, ‘but in truth, I think God decides. If there were no women in the world, there would be no men.’
‘Yes, indeed, we each play our part in creation. But if it is true, it is strange to think that the seed from my body is stronger than that of my husband, for he is a virile man. Where is my daughter? Bring me my daughter.’
The baby was returned to her, swaddled in towels. The sparse hair on her little head sparkled with gold. Constanza took her in her arms and looked at her. ‘She is a princess of Castile, and her blood is precious,’ she said. ‘And she is mine.’ A possessive note entered her voice.
Jeanette thought her response interesting and was glad of it because she had half expected Constanza to reject the baby for being a girl, but she was deciding to believe that her own strength was the dominant factor here.
‘News needs to be sent to the Duke about the birth,’ Jeanette said.
Constanza looked up from her daughter’s crumpled face.
‘Of course. Lady Swynford shall go.’ She fixed a bland eye on Katherine and addressed her.
‘I have no need of your services for the moment, and the children are well cared for. I am sure my lord has better need of your attendance and succour for the time being than I do.’
Katherine curtseyed, her expression blank barring a slight flush on her cheek as she gracefully left the room.
Constanza looked at Jeanette. ‘I am neither naive nor a fool,’ she said calmly.
‘My union with my husband is an alliance of estate, not of the heart. If he has needs, let her fulfil them, providing they do not interfere or undermine my dignity. A messenger bringing the news of a successful birth to a father is a source of great favour. Such tidings are always well rewarded, and I am sure Mistress Swynford will appreciate her payment. She is beneath being a threat to me – unless she offends my dignity.’
Jeanette inclined her head. She might not be fond of Constanza, but she respected her pragmatism and steel.
In a little while, once Constanza had taken some refreshment and settled down to some well-earned rest, Jeanette went to see Katherine, who was packing ready for her journey.
‘You have been graced with an important task,’ Jeanette said neutrally.
Katherine placed a folded chemise into her travelling chest of embossed boiled leather. ‘Indeed, my lady, and I am aware of the advantage and preferment of the task. The Queen of Castile is most generous – she is no more a pawn in this matter than I am.’
Jeanette was not so sure, but other than raising her brows, let it rest. ‘It is no easy path you walk.’
Katherine fastened the strap on the bag.
‘But it is the path I have chosen,’ she replied with quiet steel.
‘It is up to me to find my way – as my lord must find his. I would not be taking such steps if circumstances were other than they are. Better that me and my children have a powerful protector who will care for our interests and keep us safe.’ She gave Jeanette an eloquent look, full of meaning and implication without words.
Jeanette was quick enough to see the comparison between her own situation and Katherine’s in the early days of widowhood.
She could have taken offence and remarked that it was not the same, but that would have been unjust. There were enough similarities to make her bite her tongue.
When Katherine had finished packing, the women went into the adjacent chamber where the children were at play.
The girls were holding a pretend wedding, thoroughly absorbed in the details.
One of the nurses had provided a swatch of linen and a chaplet for the bride’s veil.
As Jeanette and Katherine arrived, an altercation blew up between Richard and his cousin Henry, John’s only son, three months younger than Richard.
‘You have to kneel to me because I am going to be king one day, and everyone will have to do what I tell them or else I will send them away!’ Richard declared.
‘You can’t do that,’ Henry scoffed. ‘My father is stronger than yours – hah, and I’m stronger and bigger than you as well!’ Which he was, by a full head.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Richard said implacably, and jutted his jaw. ‘You still have to kneel!’
Jeanette hastily stepped between the boys.
‘Enough of this, both of you. You are kin – cousins. Let us have no more talk of who is better than the other, or who must do what. You are allies, not enemies. There are plenty of dragons to slay without you slaying each other. Henry, your stepmother has borne a beautiful baby girl – you have a new sister to see and to protect – and Richard, you have a new baby cousin, and that is more important than a squabble over status. Now give each other the kiss of peace and have done.’
Richard jutted his lower lip, but then shrugged and stepped forward to embrace Henry, who reciprocated, although both boys were as stiff as circling dogs.
The moment swiftly passed, lost in the general excitement about the baby’s birth, but Jeanette found a moment to take Richard aside and speak to him about the advisability of lording it over his cousin and playmates.
‘But he does need to kneel to me!’ Richard protested. ‘That’s the truth.’
‘Not when you are playing games,’ Jeanette replied. ‘Make friends, not enemies – remember that.’
‘I don’t think Henry wants to be my friend.’
‘Then do not make the situation worse,’ she said with exasperation. ‘If you want to be a king, you must learn how to behave as one, and ordering Henry to kneel to you is not going to win his allegiance.’
Richard’s expression developed the shuttered look she knew so well.
‘Do you hear me?’
‘Yes, Mama.’
‘And do you heed me?’
He shot her a rebellious glance, but nodded.
‘Good. I shall speak to Henry too.’ She ruffled his hair. ‘Come now, I know the cook was making saffron cakes and they are your favourites. Think on what I have said.’
Richard nodded again, this time with more animation, the defiance leaving his eyes. She gave him a swift hug, and he hugged her in return.
‘But I am still going to be king,’ he said.